


English as a Foreign Language

by standbygo



Series: November 2014 Song Challenge [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not quite right after Mycroft pulls him out of Serbia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> An alternate vision of Sherlock's return to London post-Reichenbach. I know Series 3 has aired, but I can't seem to stop writing reunion fics.
> 
> Another in a series of pieces, built out of a challenge/cooperation between ResidentBunburyist and myself. Each piece begins with a piece of music, then I write a piece and RB draws a picture for it, or RB draws a picture and I write a piece for it. 
> 
> This song prompt came from Lance: Love is a Bourgeois Construct by Pet Shop Boys.

_Speaking English as a foreign language_

_Any words that I haven't forgot_

_…Love is a bourgeois construct_

_It's a blatant fallacy_

  * _Love is a Bourgeois Construct, Pet Shop Boys_




 

“Sorry – the holiday’s over, brother dear,” Mycroft said. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled. And said nothing.

+

Mycroft gave Sherlock another uniform and a gun. They shot their way out of the compound, running northwest.  As they jumped into the waiting helicopter, Sherlock emptied his gun towards the pursuing soldiers, shouting, “дие , свињо!”

Once they were safely in the air and out of the range of the machine guns, Sherlock fell back into the helicopter, panting. His eyes slid shut; Mycroft saw the betraying twitches of pain in his lips.

“I have a contact that will get you into a hospital in Budapest,” Mycroft said. “Once you’ve recovered sufficiently, we’ll return to England.”

“да. Колико је дуго?”

“About an hour. Sleep. You’re safe now.”

Sherlock nodded without opening his eyes.

+

Mycroft waited until noon the following day to enter Sherlock’s hospital room. He found him fully dressed and standing beside the window, staring out at the gothic landscape of Budapest.

“Feeling better?”

“Godt nok. Når vi forlader?”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “We can stay a bit longer. You’ve been on the run a long time, Sherlock, you’re not expected to recover instantly.”

Sherlock looked puzzled. “Hvad snakker du om?  Lad os gå, arbejde at gøre.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock appraisingly for a long moment. “I have further business here I need to complete first. I’ll come back later.”

Sherlock shrugged and faced the window again.

+

“Zěnme gǎo nàme jiǔ?” Sherlock yelled when Mycroft arrived the next day. "Wǒmen zhè wánquán shì zài làngfèi shíjiān. Wǒ hèn sǐ zhè guǐ dìfāngle!"

“Sherlock…” Mycroft said carefully. “I don’t think you’re quite recovered sufficiently.”

"Báichī. Wǒ méishì er.”

“I am not an idiot, and you are not fine, brother dear. Try again. English, this time, if you please.”

"Wǒ jiùshì zài shuō yīngyǔ," said Sherlock. "Bié fànshǎle!"

“Let me speak with the doctor,” Mycroft said.

+

“Ek sal alleen gaan,” Sherlock said, slapping the doctor’s hands away while glaring at Mycroft.

“You can’t go on your own. I’ve got your passport.”

Sherlock’s face turned murderous. “Trilkop,” he snarled, and threw himself on the bed, facing the wall.

“That’s very juvenile, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded.

+

Sherlock spent the next day throwing anything that would fit in his hand at anyone who tried to open the door. The nurses eventually refused to enter the room. The doctor tried entering wearing his bicycle helmet, but exited hastily when Sherlock rushed him.

“If he continues to behave like this, you may have to temporarily commit him,” said the doctor in his elegantly accented English. “There is clearly some trauma, but if he refuses treatment we may be forced to sedate him.”

They heard the clang of a bedpan, and Sherlock yelling, “Baka yaro!” from the room.

“I have an idea,” Mycroft said.

+

The hospital door slowly creaked open. Sherlock was lying, curled into a ball, under the blankets. Any object smaller than the bed had been removed or was screwed to the floor.

“चलेजाओ,” Sherlock spat.

“Sorry, can’t understand that, Sherlock,” John said mildly from the door.

The lump under the blanket froze.

John let the door swing shut behind him, and crossed the room, step by casual step.  “Been a while since I had a call from Mycroft, you know. I nearly hung up on him. Then he starts telling me this incredible story. Nearly hung up again, but then I remembered that your brother doesn’t have the imagination to make up a story like this. So I figured, what the hell, go see for sure, and at worst I’ll have a nice trip to Hungary on Mycroft Holmes’s packet.”

“დამანებე.”

“Nope, didn’t get that either. Now, Mycroft told me this story, but I’d much rather hear it from you, directly.”

“Láta mig í friði.”

“No, keep trying. Because you have a lot of explaining to do, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Lassen Sie mich in Ruhe.”

“Getting there. At least I can identify the language, even if I can’t translate. Plus I have a lot to say to you too. A lot of it has an Anglo-Saxon root, but eventually I’ll work my way up into whole sentences.”

“Gadael i mi ei ben ei hun.” Sherlock’s voice was getting quieter, with more of a questioning tone to it.

“Pretty, but not quite right.”

“Laissez-moi tranquille,” Sherlock whispered. “S’il vous plait.”

John slowly, carefully, pulled the blanket from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock covered his face with his long hands, and John pulled them away too.

“Do you have something to say to me?” John said.

Sherlock’s lips worked, forming around words, tasting them. “Je veux-”

“No,” John said firmly. “Again.”

“John.”

“Yes…?”

“I. Want.”

“Yes.”

“To go. Home.”

John let the words fall into the air like snow. They settled on the bed, on the surface of their hands, melted.

“Okay,” John said.

 

_End_

 


	2. Translations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was asked what Sherlock is actually saying. Again, if you can correct my grammar, I'd be happy to hear it.

“Sorry – the holiday’s over, brother dear,” Mycroft said. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled. And said nothing.

+

Mycroft gave Sherlock another uniform and a gun. They shot their way out of the compound, running northwest.  As they jumped into the waiting helicopter, Sherlock emptied his gun towards the pursuing soldiers, shouting, “дие , свињо!” {Serbian: Die, dogs!}

Once they were safely in the air and out of the range of the machine guns, Sherlock fell back into the helicopter, panting. His eyes slid shut; Mycroft saw the betraying twitches of pain in his lips.

“I have a contact that will get you into a hospital in Budapest,” Mycroft said. “Once you’ve recovered sufficiently, we’ll return to England.”

“да. Колико је дуго?” {Serbian: Yes. How long?}

“About an hour. Sleep. You’re safe now.”

Sherlock nodded without opening his eyes.

+

Mycroft waited until noon the following day to enter Sherlock’s hospital room. He found him fully dressed, his hair trimmed, the beard gone as though it had never been. He was standing beside the window, staring out at the gothic landscape of Budapest.

“Feeling better?”

“Godt nok. Når vi forlader?” {Danish: Good enough. When do we leave?}

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “We can stay a bit longer. You’ve been on the run a long time, Sherlock; you’re not expected to recover instantly.”

Sherlock looked puzzled. “Hvad snakker du om?  Lad os gå, arbejde at gøre.” {Danish: What are you talking about? Let’s go, I have work to do.}

Mycroft stared at Sherlock appraisingly for a long moment. “I have further business here I need to complete first. I’ll come back later.”

Sherlock shrugged and faced the window again.

+

"Zěnme gǎo nàme jiǔ?" {Chinese: What is the delay?} Sherlock yelled when Mycroft arrived the next day. "Wǒmen zhè wánquán shì zài làngfèi shíjiān. Wǒ hèn sǐ zhè guǐ dìfāngle!" {Chinese: We are wasting time. I hate this place.}

“Sherlock…” Mycroft said carefully. “I don’t think you’re quite recovered sufficiently.”

“Báichī. Wǒ méishì er.” {Chinese: Idiot. I am fine.}

“I am not an idiot, and you are not fine, brother dear. Try again. English, this time, if you please.”

“Wǒ jiùshì zài shuō yīngyǔ.,” said Sherlock, “Bié fànshǎle!” {Chinese: I am speaking English. Stop being stupid!}

“Let me speak with the doctor,” Mycroft said.

+

“Ek sal alleen gaan,” {Afrikaans: I will go alone.} Sherlock said, slapping the doctor’s hands away while glaring at Mycroft.

“You can’t go on your own. I’ve got your passport.”

Sherlock’s face turned murderous. “Trilkop,” {Afrikaans: Dickhead.} he snarled, and threw himself on the bed, facing the wall.

“That’s very juvenile, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded.

+

Sherlock spent the next day throwing anything that would fit in his hand at anyone who tried to open the door. The nurses eventually refused to enter the room. The doctor tried entering wearing his bicycle helmet, but exited hastily when Sherlock rushed him.

“If he continues to behave like this, you may have to temporarily commit him,” said the doctor in his elegantly accented English. “There is clearly some trauma, but if he refuses treatment we may be forced to sedate him.”

They heard the clang of a bedpan, and Sherlock yelling, “Baka yaro!” from the room. {Japanese: Stupid bastard.}

“I have an idea,” Mycroft said.

+

The hospital door slowly creaked open. Sherlock was lying, curled into a ball, under the blankets. Any object smaller than the bed had been removed or was screwed to the floor.

“चलेजाओ,” Sherlock spat. {Hindi: Go away.}

“Sorry, can’t understand that, Sherlock,” John said mildly from the door.

The lump under the blanket froze.

John let the door swing shut behind him, and crossed the room, step by casual step.  “Been a while since I had a call from Mycroft, you know. I nearly hung up on him. Then he starts telling me this incredible story. Nearly hung up again, but then I remembered that your brother doesn’t have the imagination to make up a story like this. So I figured, what the hell, go see for sure, and at worst I’ll have a nice trip to Hungary on Mycroft Holmes’s packet.”

“დამანებე.” {Georgian: Leave me alone.}

“Nope, didn’t get that either. Now, Mycroft told me this story, but I’d much rather hear it from you, directly.”

“Láta mig í friði.” {Icelandic: Leave me alone}

“No, keep trying. Because you have a lot of explaining to do, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Lassen Sie mich in Ruhe.” {German: Leave me alone.}

“Getting there. At least I can identify the language, even if I can’t translate. Plus I have a lot to say to you to. A lot of it has an Anglo-Saxon root, but eventually I’ll work my way up into whole sentences.”

“Gadael i mi ei ben ei hun.” {Welsh: Leave me alone.} Sherlock’s voice was getting quieter, with more of a questioning tone to it.

“Pretty, but not quite right.”

“Laissez-moi tranquille,” Sherlock whispered. “S’il vous plait.” {French: Leave me in peace. Please.}

John slowly, carefully, pulled the blanket from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock covered his face with his long hands, and John pulled them away too.

“Do you have something to say to me?” John said.

Sherlock’s lips worked, forming around words, tasting them. “Je veux-”

“No,” John said firmly. “Again.”

“John.”

“Yes…?”

“I. Want.”

“Yes.”

“To go. Home.”

John let the words fall into the air like snow. They settled on the bed, on the surface of their hands, melted.

“Okay,” John said.

 

_End_

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by Google Translate :) I don't speak any of these languages except for a bit of German and French, so if you do and can correct my grammar I would be grateful.


End file.
